


my body diesnt

by marleystcyr



Category: Panic - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13060878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marleystcyr/pseuds/marleystcyr





	my body diesnt

Title: My Body Doesn't Turn That Way (Right Hand: Yellow) [s/a]  
Author: selectivelyurie  
Beta: moceanu  
Rating: R  
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon  
POV: Third  
Summary: So they're flat broke, eating microwavable pasta, and bored out of their minds...that is until Brendon suggests playing Twister and things get interesting.  
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't believe.  
Author Notes: This is probably the most clichéd plot line ever written, but I simply couldn't resist it. 

 

They’ve been living on a diet of Ramen noodles, instant mashed potatoes, and tap water for the past three weeks and with paychecks only big enough to get both of them by (to pay the bills and afford gas to and from their dead end jobs), fast food seems like a five-star cuisine right about now. 

Ryan lazily flicks his wrist towards the TV, ushering the pixels into a different channel, a different picture, and stares over his wobbly wooden TV tray, decorated with the delicious remnants of (“Oh my god, Brendon we could afford this?”) microwavable pasta and a half empty glass of Coke, thanks to the liter bottle perched gloriously on the counter in the kitchen. The last time Brendon had enough money to come home with Coke was when his parents had come down to visit and well. Fuck, he didn’t want to seem that broke. 

Okay, so maybe they live like they’re poor. And maybe the fact that they sleep on two mattresses splayed across the hardwood floor of an apartment that isn’t very good on upkeep is a person’s first hint that they’re not financially well off. And quite possibly, the second hint is the fact that there’s hardly anything -- a worn out, busted up, wire spring couch, greasy with all sorts of stains and…spots, a small, dim floor lamp (which doesn’t even have a bulb in at the moment because, seriously, bulbs are their last priority right now), and an ancient television set -- littering their living room floor. And perhaps the third hint is the fact that there is a total of seven items in their refrigerator and even less in their pantry. And conceivably, the fact that as of right now there is only a few dollars in change on the counter is the last hint that yeah, they’re fucking broke. 

But what can they say? They’re college students, aspiring musicians, boys with little to no money to their name and more pride than they should have when it comes to calling home for a few hundred dollars for rent. Technically they’ve brought this financial burden upon themselves because, “Yes Brendon, I really do need every Beatles album ever made,” and, “Ryan, oh my god, Ryan! Look at these shoes! I love them!” can really waste your money away. 

But on nights like this, when they’ve spent so much of their minimum wage paychecks on their responsibilities as “adults” and they’ve blown the rest on music, entertainment, and well, shit in general, what is there to do? 

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do,” Brendon voices, punctuating each of his words with a thunk of his head to his own TV tray, now void of any leftovers since he just returned from the trashcan in the kitchen. 

Ryan grunts in agreement, presses mute and tosses the remote on the vacant couch cushion next to him. “There’s nothing good on,” he states, all monotone voice and heavy eyes. 

Sighing, Brendon props his feet up on the tray and leans back against the couch, arms behind his head. He stares at the ceiling in contemplation. “You working tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, scratching his arm. “Eight to six,” he says and Brendon nods, files away Ryan’s schedule. He says, 

“Me too; ten to four.” 

There’s silence for a few moments. The drone of the refrigerator overpowers the hum of the air conditioning and the buzz on the television drowns out every other noise produced within the house (they‘ve grown to ignore it, really). Ryan looks blindly at the flicker of pictures in the box before him, attempting to create dialogue within his mind of what the characters on the screen might be saying, of what they should be saying. 

Brendon fidgets on the couch, tucks his feet beneath him, says, “Let’s play a game.” 

Ryan says, “Brendon, we don’t have any games.” 

“Sure we do,” Brendon insists, removing himself from the couch, ignoring the sickening sticky noise that emerges from his ass leaving the fabric. “We’ve got plenty of games.” 

“Brendon,” Ryan repeats, dead monotone and in a way that suggests, they don’t have any games because Ryan says so. “We don’t have any games.” 

Rolling his eyes, Brendon walks across their stained living room carpet and pulls open the storage closet just inside the hallway. Various recreational balls, a fucked up boom box, Ryan’s strange collection of Latin Dance Instructional videos and a rather funky smelling blanket all topple to the floor, thankfully right after Brendon sees the impending disaster and hops out of the way. 

“Fuck, we need to get rid of shit,” he breathes, toeing away the blanket in question and wisely not pointing out Ryan’s short lived obsession with ‘discovering different cultures’. 

“Brendon,” Ryan grouses from the his spot on the couch. “Stop being stupid and leave shit alone. You’re making a fucking mess.” 

“Quit being such a dick, Ross,” Brendon laughs as he begins to file through a small rack of games in boxes, all colorful and appealing to a child’s eye…and Brendon’s eye. “I’m just trying to make sure we don’t waste away with boredom.” 

“Yeah, well,” Ryan grumbles, “You’ll be wishing you’d let yourself waste away if you don’t clean up that shit. And -- Dammit, Brendon. I’m not fucking playing Candy Land.” 

“Jesus, Ryan,” Brendon says, feigning shock as he pulls out Candy Land, Clue, some bizarre drinking oriented game he’s never heard of (and even if he had, it’s not like they can play cause, hey, they have no booze). He asks, “When the fuck did you get such a filthy ass mouth?” 

“Shut up,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. He’s not really annoyed with Brendon. Okay, well, maybe he is just a little bit because although Brendon likes to think Ryan didn’t see the smirk flash across his face when he saw those Latin Dance tapes, Ryan’s fucking embarrassed about that shit, okay? And he’s only just managed to get Brendon to stop mentioning it. 

“Ah, c’mon, Ross,” Brendon says, shuffling over into the living room and dumping an armful of games onto his unstable TV tray. “Look,” he begins, “We’ve got nothing to do. I’m bored as shit, you can’t write for shit, and we’re poor as shit. Might as well try to stir up a little fun, eh?” Brendon shakes a game box, trying to be coaxing. 

Deadpanning, Ryan raises and eyebrow and says, “By playing Hungry, Hungry Hippos, Bren? Really?” 

Brendon turns the box around, reads the front and rolls his eyes dramatically. He tosses the game to the side, “Okay, so not with Hungry, Hungry Hippos,” he amends, not realizing which game he had pulled from the stack. “But we’ve got like--” he glances quickly at all the games and makes up a rational number, “-- a bajillion games to chose from.” 

“Brendon,” Ryan says, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his knees. “I’m fucking twenty years old. I’m not about to play a child’s game.” 

“But all of them are ages six and up!” Brendon whines and Ryan can’t help but laugh. 

Slightly caving, Ryan tips his chin up and asks, “Alright, what games do we have?” 

\---- 

After ten minutes of deliberation -- and ruling out Scrabble because Ryan is sick of dealing with words, Monopoly because it takes too much time and Brendon only wants to be the one piece they don’t have, Clue because well, neither of them really know why they don’t like that game, and Chess because, “We’re not in a fucking nursing home, Brendon.” -- they’ve narrowed it down to two games: Twister and Candy Land. 

Currently, Ryan is arguing with Brendon about not playing Candy Land because a) it’s fucking stupid, b) it’s fucking stupid, and c) it’s fucking stupid and too bright, and Brendon is stating an ongoing mantra of, “But I wanna!” 

“It’s not gonna happen, Bren,” Ryan says, crossing his arms defiantly. 

With a pout, Brendon says, “Fine.” His bottom lip instantly stops looking so sad and he beams. “That leaves us Twister.” 

Ryan chuckles, “I can’t promise anything.” 

“What?” Brendon laughs, beginning to unfold the plastic mat tucked into the box. He splays it out onto the floor, looks at Ryan and raises an eyebrow, “Don’t think you can compete with my flexibility?” he asks, voice dropping low and seductive, although Ryan knows it’s Brendon’s way of presenting a challenge. 

“You’re such a lame-ass, Urie,” Ryan scoffs, fighting off his smile because Brendon really is ridiculous. Also, because he’s seen the way Brendon can contort himself and no, there’s no way he can compete with him. 

“Psh,” Brendon rolls his eyes, “I might be a lame-ass, but I’m gonna kick your ass at this game, so bring it, Ross.” 

Ryan pushes himself up from his seat and waddles over to where Brendon is setting the pathetic looking, worn spinner on the coffee table. “Y’know,” Ryan begins, picking up the piece of cardboard and flicking the plastic black arrow mindlessly. “The last time we played this, Spencer almost broke his back. He couldn’t walk for like, a day.” 

“Well, I fully intend on using my spine to function, thanks. I know my limits.” 

“That’s what Spencer said, too, and he ended up bed-ridden,” Ryan says dryly, slapping the spinner back down on the coffee table with a snap and looking over at Brendon, amused. 

“If things get out of control, I’ll stop,” Brendon vows, holding up one hand and placing the other on his heart, as if he’s being sworn in. 

“Sure you will,” Ryan laughs, sarcastic and taunting. 

Brendon smiles at him, warm and wide and Ryan can’t help but lose his hard façade and grin back, genuine. 

“You ready to lose, Ross?” Brendon says, clapping Ryan on the back. 

“Whatever you say, Bren,” Ryan replies, positioning himself on the opposite side of the mat from Brendon. 

“Okay, so. Just to keep it fair, we’ll take turns spinning, cool?” 

Ryan nods and then breaks into an evil grin, “Ladies first.” 

Brendon cackles wish unexpected laughter and even though that is the oldest, most clichéd joke in the book, he’s amused at how easily he set himself up for it, “Touché, Ross. Touché.” 

As Ryan bows his courtesy for Brendon’s compliment, Brendon pulls the spinner down onto the carpet and flicks it hard. “Right hand: blue.” 

\---- 

A little over three minutes later, there is a weird sort of Brendon-Ryan-yoga-pretzel tangled on the mat and Brendon reaches out as far as he can, arching up on his tiptoes to flick the spinner. 

Somehow, Ryan managed to end up looking like a mangled crab, both of his hands on red dots, his left foot arched over Brendon’s right leg (which was pressed harshly into a blue dot) searching for a yellow dot, and his right foot tucked at an un-godly angle beneath his back, resting on a blue dot. To say the least, he’s extremely uncomfortable and he looks up at the ceiling fan wondering why on Earth he agreed to this. 

Brendon, however, seems to be peachy keen, practically standing in his own corner of the mat, both feet on blue, both hands on yellow. 

So naturally, Ryan really kind of hates him when he announces, “Left foot: green,” and Ryan has to really stretch himself to reach the other side of the mat. 

“Having a little trouble there, Ryan?” Brendon smirks upon hearing the tiny grunts Ryan produces as he strains his body to reach, reach, reach. 

A puff of breath billows Ryan’s bangs up and out of his face and he bares his teeth at Brendon. “Nope,” he mumbles, quick and certain. 

“Are you sure?” Brendon presses, shifting his foot over to an appropriate green dot. “‘Cause, I mean, we can totally stop if you need to. Just say the word.” Brendon’s voice is low again, challenging. 

“I’m good,” Ryan grimaces and reaches out to flick the spinner, quickly before he loses his balance. “Left hand: red,” he says and shifts his hand one dot over. Ah, this is a bit more comfortable. 

Brendon shifts as well and they’re side by side, Brendon’s hair hanging down in his face as he stares down with concentration at the mat below him. Ryan closes his eyes and waits for Brendon to call out the next direction and when he opens his eyes, Brendon giggles, “Left foot: yellow.” 

Ryan laughs, relieved and he tucks his left foot into a more comfortable position on a yellow dot. Well, it’s more comfortable until Brendon throws his leg between both of Ryan’s and wow. This is getting interesting. 

Ryan’s laugh is instantly coughed away and he gets serious again, concentrates on not falling and slash or not noticing how Brendon’s knee is kinda extremely close to his crotch. 

“Your turn,” Brendon says and Ryan flicks the spinner faster than before because, this just. Yeah, it’s the slightest bit weird. 

The black arrow spins and. Fuck. 

“Left hand: blue.” 

Brendon shifts, Ryan shifts and. 

Oh. 

Ryan is belly up, Brendon staring down at him, completely atop him and how the hell did they end up like this? 

“Hi,” Brendon says, cheesy grin trying to hide his wide eyes. 

Ryan chokes a bit when he says, “Hey.” 

There’s silence for a few seconds as each of them gather their bearings and try to grasp the reality of the situation, that Brendon is practically straddling his best friend. 

Ryan tries desperately to not think of how Brendon smells, or how their breaths have suddenly become a bit ragged, or even how he’s positive there is a hard on growing in his pants, and definitely not how he felt Brendon’s own brush against his thigh. 

No, he’s not going to dare think about the proximity of their erections or worse, what caused them. 

It’s too fucking weird. 

“Your turn,” Ryan says, almost inaudibly small. 

Brendon swallows hard, reaches over and flicks the spinner. With a quick glance he says, “Right foot: green.” 

And yeah, Ryan most assuredly feels a bulge in Brendon’s pants when Brendon shifts his leg and the way Brendon’s breath catches just the slightest is even more proof. 

Brendon Urie just unintentionally brushed his dick against Ryan’s leg. Again. 

Internally, Ryan explodes. 

“Go,” Brendon demands and holy fucking mother of Christ, his voice is so, so low now. It’s dark and smooth and dammit, if it isn’t making a bigger problem between Ryan’s legs. 

Ryan fumbles to spin the arrow and when it finally stops he stutters out, “L-left hand: yellow.” 

There are those times in life that you become so overwhelmed with a sense of shock and slash or helplessness, that words seem to pack up their shit and just desert your ass, leaving you to mumble incoherencies and make yourself look like a complete fool. Ryan finds himself in one such situation the minute Brendon reaches between Ryan’s legs and places his hand firmly on a yellow dot. 

“You still okay?” Brendon asks and Ryan is sure his eyes are about to pop out of his head. “You seem a little--” 

“I’m fine,” Ryan chokes out. “I’m fine, just.” He pauses to gather his control. He’s losing it and he should say stop, they should stop, they made a rule. But my god, this is just-- “Just go.” 

Brendon nods and says, “Right hand: red.” 

Ryan doesn’t notice that Brendon never spun the arrow because his mind can’t focus on anything except for the fact that Brendon’s face is hovering so close to his now, he can smell the faint hint of pasta on his tongue and Ryan closes his eyes. 

Stop, he thinks. “Left foot: blue.” he says. 

And he moves, shifts slowly and carefully because just because he’s felt the outline of Brendon’s cock, doesn’t mean he has to inform Brendon of his own. But Brendon, he shifts, too and their hips manage to connect in this delicious sort of grind and Ryan whimpers, fingers clenching at the mat. 

“Jesus,” Brendon breathes and he drops his head into the crook of Ryan’s neck, the pleasure too much. 

“Brendon,” Ryan says, terrified and thrilled and trembling because of nerves and cramping muscles and because Brendon’s shaking, too. “Brendon, we should--” 

“Right hand: yellow,” Brendon interrupts, digging the heel of his hand into the yellow dot beside Ryan’s head and the way his hips rub against Ryan’s hips makes both boys moan out simultaneously, Brendon hot and wet into Ryan’s collarbone, lips opening and closing around the tendon in his neck. “Fuck, Ry. Right hand: yellow.” 

Ryan soaks up the sweet drag of Brendon’s hips as he continues to spout off random hand and feet directions, ones that don’t quite add up to where he positions himself, and ones that aren’t even on the spinner. 

“Right knee: red; left foot: pink; right hand -- Oh, shit. Right hand: yellow,” he moans, snapping his hips harshly into Ryan’s and Ryan arches into it, hands slipping with sweat on the map and he’s lost all control. 

Without warning, Ryan drops down onto his back, takes Brendon by the back of the head and growls, “Your lips: mine,” before pulling their mouths together, aggressive and wanting. 

Brendon collapses against him, all hips and stomach and chest smushed tight atop Ryan’s and he crawls up closer to Ryan’s wet, biting mouth, searching for frantic kisses and stolen breaths. His knee slides between Ryan’s legs and he nudges against Ryan’s cock, trapped beneath the fabric of his jeans and just when his tongue finds an opening in Ryan’s lips, Ryan gasps, needy and helpless beneath him, writhing. 

Never again. Never, ever again will Brendon ever make fun of Ryan about watching Latin Dance Instructional videos because it’s clearly evident that it was time and money well spent, the way Ryan’s rolling his hips back against his and. 

Brendon decides right then and there, registers somewhere in the back of his mind that someday, fucking someday soon they are going to watch those together and Ryan will teach him how to move his hips like this. He vows it. 

“Oh, god, Brendon,” Ryan pants, clawing at Brendon’s shirt and sucking bruises onto his exposed neck and he chokes, “Fuck!” 

Brendon’s pelvis rubs, snaps, circles against Ryan’s hip bone and Ryan bucks his hips up to meet him, clothes too much and annoying but that friction is so mind-blowing. Brendon’s hand, small but commanding clamps tightly around an exposed portion of Ryan’s waist and he squeezes, desperate, his other hand tangled hopelessly in sandy locks. 

Each movement is a slow rocking motion, as if they’re trying to pick up speed at a reasonable rate and each time it extracts a different reaction: a groan, a whimper, an ‘Oh, yes!’, a harsh kiss, a reach for more and all Ryan can see is redbluegreenyellowredbluegreenBrendonyellowredblue -- 

“Brendon, shit,” he gasps, cock throbbing and so so close. 

“Tell me to stop,” Brendon chokes, fingers digging so deep into the flesh of Ryan’s hip that he moans out in pain. The muscles in Brendon’s arms strain to support himself above Ryan, to keep his hand on the ground so that maybe he has some sense of reality throughout all this. Ryan’s fingers claw ravenously at the back of Brendon’s neck and when he pulls Brendon down to lick, taste, breathe inside his mouth, Brendon groans, “Please, tell me -- Fuck, Ryan. Please…stop.” 

Ryan knows they’ve broken the rule, they’re so out of control it’s obscene (literally) but he’ll damned if he lets what little self control he has left determine the fate of this glorious sexual experience. 

“No,” he whispers, kissing up the column of Brendon’s pale throat and when he reaches his lips, kiss swollen and wet, he mouths, “Don’t.” 

To Brendon, that’s the sexiest thing he thinks Ryan could have said in that moment, so it’s only expected that he lets go. Just comes apart above Ryan, gasping with jerky hips and aching fingers and Ryan’s name on the tip of his tongue. And Ryan, well, just the noise Brendon makes as he comes, arching his back and just fucking, whimpering in this way that is entirely too hot to put into words, much less a complete thought. And Ryan’s life is so carefully composed of words and explanations and fucking, coherency that when that composure crumbles, Ryan dissolves with it, eyes clenched tight and mouth hanging open, gasping helplessly for those words lost to him. 

The moment lasts in what can only be described as quick, intuitive breaths that rack their whole frames and everything is too, too, too sensitive right now and they ride through their aftershocks with slack mouths and languid limbs. 

They lay there, spent and breathing heavy and neither wanting to move and feel the sticky wetness trapped in their pants, between their legs. Brendon remains sprawled atop Ryan, whispers kisses behind Ryan’s ear and Ryan lets his head fall back against the carpet, twirls Brendon’s hair and rubs circles on Brendon’s palm. The silence is comforting despite the buzzing of the TV and Ryan looks up lazily to see that it’s still on, a different, new sitcom on mute. He kisses one, two, three long kisses into the side of Brendon’s head and Brendon starts to giggle. 

“What?” Ryan asks, breaking into a smile and he stills his fingers, curling and uncurling Brendon’s dark locks. 

Brendon playfully nibbles Ryan’s ear and whispers, “Dude, you totally lost.” 

They both count it as a win.


End file.
